by G. P. Taylor
There, in a small cotton sack, was a pound of coarse grey powder. Jonah dipped his hand in, cupping a palmful and holding it to his nose. He smelt the sulphur and saltpetre. “Gunpowder,” he said as he took the sack and pushed it into the game pocket of his frock coat.
He slipped from the stable and into the alleyway, keeping to the shadows.
The streets were still silent and abandoned from the comet. Jonah scurried through the alleyways and yards that edged along the river, towards Vamana House. The knife seemed to urge him on, pointing the way to go. He knew not what he would do. All he could think of were his words to Malachi, words that he had to obey, after all.
Jonah paused at the sound of cart wheels turning against the mud. Slowly, surely, the sound grew louder.
Jonah stepped into the doorway of a milliner’s shop and sunk into the fog, peering out from the murky shadows. Along Parliament Street the mist swirled as the feet of the militia stirred the ground with their marching and laughter. Then came the hanging cart, strapped with two oiled-rag lanterns that lit the path of the donkey. And in the cart, dragged over the cobbles, was Malachi. He stood above the militia, flagon in hand, swigging from the neck as he gulped between each line, drunkenly wailing the half-forgotten words of an old song.
From his hiding place Jonah watched as the procession passed by. Twelve militia, the donkey, Malachi chained to the cart, and Skullet, tapping out the beat of the pageant with his long staff.
“Let me sing . . . donkey, stop, my wine has gone . . . sing the call of the bonny lass . . . Skullet, you’re an ass . . . you would make a wife for this poor beast of burden. Listen, listen!” Malachi shouted even louder. “All who take part in the Court of the New Moon will be damned. Lice will crawl your skin and murder shall be always in your heart.”
“Give him more wine,” ordered Skullet as he whacked the donkey across the rump with his staff. “I will not listen to his ranting and would rather he be drunk than foul-tongued. He will wake the dead if he continues.”
“The dead!” Malachi screamed, holding his heart as if pierced through by Skullet’s words. “We are surrounded by the dead, they are everywhere.” He moaned as he fell to his backside with a loud thump that rocked the carriage from side to side. “I shall be one of them, wrongly killed by Lord Wart-nose Malpas and his even uglier servant and bottle-washer, who breakfasts with the murderous tart of Fleet Prison. Isn’t that right, Skullet?”
“If I had my way, I would cut your throat here and now,” Skullet said as he lashed his staff towards Malachi. “Witchcraft alone is a hanging offence, that and theft should see you gone from this world. Now, SILENCE!” His words rang out and echoed through the empty streets.
Jonah followed at a distance, keeping to the shadows and hiding himself in the fog that rolled in from the river. The mist turned New Palace Yard into a lake of soft white, as if the city had been built in the clouds.
In two turns they were in Thieving Lane, and Vamana House stood before them. Jonah watched as Malachi had his shackles taken from his wrists and was hauled from the carriage into the house. He was followed by Skullet and several of the militia.
To the right of the entrance stood a tall black carriage, its driver wrapped in a thick horse-blanket. He appeared to be sleeping. Jonah crept along the opposite side of the road, his eyes fixed to the door to the house. A soldier peered out, looked nervously up and down the street, then slammed the door shut as he stepped inside. The carriage driver jumped, momentarily awakened from his sleep, then settled back into the blanket and his wintry dreaming.
High above, Skullet pulled the curtains of the leaded window against the dark of the night and turned to Lord Malpas, who sat in his fireside chair.
“Bring him in and let’s have this farce over and done with. Lord of the realm and even I have to obey the law.” Malpas picked up a large log and threw it onto the fire. “I need the Alabaster, Skullet. The life trickles from my bones and I get weaker by the hour. Without that box I will die.” He rubbed the bloodied bandage that was wrapped tightly around his wrist. “This curse has followed me through life—been with every Malpas until their untimely deaths, but not so with me. I want to live beyond death and be restored to life without this curse.”
“It was a great thing that Homuncule Malpas did for the King, without his bravery you would not have all that you do today,” Skullet said pointedly. He went back to the window and opened the curtains a chink to peer into the street briefly before turning back into the room.
“Yes indeed . . . I would not have a wife who refuses to live with me, nor would I have a wound that never heals or a King who thinks he’s a farmer, what . . . what . . .” Malpas clucked, mimicking the King’s voice. “Some say I have never had it so good. Waiting to die, day after day in a cold, lifeless house, ravaged of what joy I once had. I want the Alabaster. I want the knife and I don’t want to leave this world until a time will come when I can be resurrected and cured of this devilish sickness. That, my dear Skullet, is all I want. NOT TOO MUCH TO ASK, IS IT?” he screamed as he sprung to his feet and kicked the burning logs in the grate, sending a shower of sparks cascading about the room. “Find me the oracle and all will be well. I will have them back and you will inherit all that is mine.”
“We should be going to the Great Hall,” Skullet said. “The Honourable Dobson is there, ready for the trial, my lord. And Malachi is as drunk as a hosteller and ready to admit that he is the King of Spain if we ask him. Once he is out of the way, we can go to the Citadel and get the oracle from Solomon.”
“Solomon?” Malpas asked. “The prophet has the boy?”
“Taken from Malachi in the alleyway just moments before I arrived with the militia. A sensitive task to get the boy back, but one that will be made easier once Malachi has departed.” Skullet laughed as he took Malpas by the arm and guided him from the room towards the Great Hall.
Together they twisted and turned their way through the house to the fine oak doors of the Great Hall, guarded by the militia. Malpas stopped and looked at Skullet.
“Witnesses?” he asked hesitantly before entering.
“Three. They all saw him steal the spoon.”
“Motive?”
“He is a thief and a liar. I have one man who will say that Malachi wormed his way in here with talk of telling your future. Dobson hates anything to do with fortune-tellers, will hang them just for their name.”
“You have done well,” Malpas said as he nodded to the guard to open the door. “One thing—how sane is Dobson this week? I have heard that he was found chewing the grass in Parliament Fields and that he believed he was a horse.”
“He is well. Tethered to the table and groomed for the appearance. I should think he will last the trial,” Skullet said.
In the Great Hall, Malachi was strapped to a chair and surrounded by militia. In the middle of the room sat the Honourable Dobson, wrapped in his ermine robes and garlanded with his long horsehair wig with its fine curls. He appeared to be asleep; his eyelids quivered and he twitched his nose like a rabbit, sniffing and snorting the air as in his slumber he rubbed his face with the back of his hand.
“The Court shall rise,” Skullet said, announcing the arrival of Lord Malpas. From the deep black shadows at the back of the Great Hall stepped four men who bowed their heads ceremoniously to Lord Malpas.
Skullet breezed across the room, brushing the dust of the street from his long black coat and staring at each of the witnesses one by one. As he passed the Honourable Dobson, he kicked the chair, jollying the old man from his slumber and startling him into the world.
“GUILTY!” Dobson shouted, jumping to his feet and pointing a finger at Malpas, who was just about to take his seat.
“My lord,” Skullet said, gripping the Judge’s chin and turning his head to face Malachi, “that is the defendant. He is the one on trial, not Lord Malpas.”
Judge Dobson looked about the room, then promptly sat down in his chair, staring at Malpas and mutte
ring under his breath. “Where is the counsel?” Dobson asked as he peered over the end of his long nose.
“I stand for the plaintiff,” said Skullet, “and the defendant insists on speaking for himself.”
“Not satisfactory,” Dobson said as he rubbed his face with his hands, trying to wipe away the sleep. “Can’t have a servant representing his master. . . . Whatever will the world think?”
“I assure you it is satisfactory,” Malpas shouted as the judge looked about the room, trying to count those present and nodding to each in turn as if they were old friends.
“If you say so, Malpas,” Dobson said. “You’re paying . . .” The clock above them struck the first beat of midnight.
“Indeed. And time is money,” Malpas replied.
The magician looked on, trying to focus his eyes on all that was before him as he pulled on his greasy beard.
“INDEED!” shouted Skullet, trying to gain the attention of the Judge. “In very few words, the defendant came to this house posing as a fortune-teller and stole from this place a silver spoon valued at one guinea.” Skullet stared at Dobson, hoping there would be some kind of acknowledgment that he had spoken. The Judge stared back as if Skullet were not there. “I have witnesses. Several of them saw the event and one was offered the goods. All in all the case can be opened and closed in one breath. Can it not?”
Judge Dobson closed his eyes and pondered as he picked his lips with his fingers. “And what does the defendant have to say for himself?” he asked, to the surprise of all that were present.
“I say it’s a lie,” Malachi replied. He shuffled closer to the Judge as if this were some game and the chair a fat hobbyhorse. “It was planted upon me by Skullet, never stolen anything in my—”
“WITNESSES!” Skullet shouted at the Judge. “There are men who stand in the room who were privy to the event—what does he say about that?”
“I say they are straw men, paid by Malpas to stand for him. Liars and cheats who want to see me dead and steal all that I have.”
The Judge sniffed the air, twitching his nose with each snivel. “I can smell a demon,” he said in a low voice. “Someone here has been sucking from the bosom of hell—who dares come into this court with drink in their bellies?”
“ ’Tis Malachi,” Skullet whispered. “I am afraid that he is a drunkard and cannot contain himself.”
“A fortune-teller, a wine-bibber and a THIEF!” Dobson spat the words at Malachi. Life appeared to have suddenly returned to his body, as if the presence of a demon had shocked him from death and madness. The Honourable Dobson stood to his feet, rummaged in the pocket of his coat and nimbly pulled out a black hood that he placed upon his head. “GUILTY!” he bellowed. “Any man who stands before me with a demon in his belly is GUILTY—no matter what the crime. He shall be taken to Fleet Prison and hanged, and the sooner the better.”
Malpas jumped to his feet and leapt towards the Judge. “Fleet Prison? It can’t be. . . . We have our own gallows and we could hang him now. My men have spent the afternoon building the finest instrument of death London has ever seen—he could be hanged, drawn and quartered all at once, and with no cost to the city.”
“Fleet I have said and Fleet it will be.” Dobson turned and walked towards Malachi, who sat helpless, his head downcast. “What awaits you should be seen by no man. Hell is a place where sprites will pick at your flesh with red-hot pincers. Every day for eternity you will endure the torture of that place, your eyes burning as if being fried like two golden eggs as every hair of your beard is plucked from your chin one at a time. What do you say to that, my friend?”
Malachi looked up defiantly. “I say the company shall be more honest and decent than that with which I am now acquainted. I say that when you breathe your last, you shall be with me, with no water to calm your tongue, and begging for your poor soul to be extinguished forever. Do what you will, your fate shall be thrice my own.”
“There speaks a guilty man,” Malpas said, rubbing his hands and nodding to the militia to take Malachi away. The heat from the fire had reddened his face to a blush. “Again, Judge Dobson, we have seen your true virtue and skill—who else could have the insight that we have seen this night? What a wonder to behold.” Malpas began to applaud, encouraging the gathering to join with him. “Now take the man to Fleet Prison and have the sentence carried out at once. There is no place in this world for one such as him.”
The captain of the guard untied Malachi and lifted him to his feet. All strength had left him, his legs buckled as he was puppeted from the Great Hall and into the long corridor to the front door of the house.
Malachi stumbled through the doorway and onto the steps, his mind blank, wiped clear by the whirlpool of fear that now sucked him deeper. “Oh, what wrong have I done? What evil so great that my end should be as this?” he wailed drunkenly, his long magician’s coat trailing behind him, tattered and forlorn.
At the foot of the steps stood a tall black carriage harnessed to two dark horses with blue head plumes and ermine collars. “Lord Malpas wants him to go on his last journey in this carriage,” the coachman growled as the militia brought Malachi down the steps. “Place him inside, lock the door and one of you travel with me—he won’t be escaping, the speed I will fly. You all follow on with the donkey cart.”
“But this is Judge Dobson’s carriage,” said the captain of the guard.
“And I his coachman. Go check with your master as I have with mine. Do as Lord Malpas desires and put the old man in the carriage and we shall be away,” the coachman grunted.
Malachi looked up at the coachman. A thick blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and his hat was pulled down over his ears. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Malachi said quietly. “Close the door to Vamana House and keep out the night. Is it so bad that my last journey through this city should be in such a fine carriage? Your master is kind beyond belief. Now let me take mount and go to Fleet Prison to meet my end.”
The captain of the guard looked up and down the empty street. Only the calling of a night bird in Parliament Street broke the silence. “Very well,” he said as he pulled open the carriage door. “I will travel with the coachman and take the prisoner to the Fleet.”
Malachi stepped into the carriage and slid across the leather seat, snuggling into the corner as if it were his favourite armchair. He smiled to himself as the captain started to climb the steps.
Suddenly the horsewhip cracked and the horses bolted. The coach lurched from side to side, throwing the captain into the mud. Then the horses took speed, hooves clattering and plumes flying.
There was a sharp crack of muskets as the militia fired upon the carriage, jolting the horses to run wildly along Thieving Lane, skidding round the turn to King Street and into the darkness. Malachi held tightly to the thin black straps as the carriage yawed back and forth, sliding him across the seat. He kept his grip with one hand as he was tumbled against the floor as the carriage bounced out of control along the street.
“I would prefer to die in Fleet Prison than be smashed to death in a judge’s carriage,” Malachi shouted as he tried to wedge himself at the back of the coach.
“You will not die at all if I have my way, dear friend,” Jonah shouted from the coachman’s seat as he gripped the reins to slow the horses to a canter.
XIX
AGAPEMONE
“Quickly!” Jonah shouted as he ran through the marketplace. Magnus Malachi hobbled behind, his head pounding from the quart of gin that set every nerve on fire and thumped his beating heart.
“I am not a young man,” he shouted as he grabbed hold of a pillar to steady himself. “I should have stayed to be hanged.”
Jonah laughed, then stopped in the darkness and looked about him. Far ahead he could see the door to the inn standing slightly open.
“Water . . . ,” Malachi groaned as he grabbed the back of Jonah’s coat. “I can go no further unless I have a drink.”
“You will have something finer,�
�� Jonah said as he tugged Malachi’s hand and led the way across the mud to the door of the Bull and Mouth. “This is the place,” he whispered to Malachi. “Quickly, Malachi, we are wanted men.”
Jonah slipped his hand inside the door and in an instant had vanished.
“Jonah . . . ,” Malachi whimpered as his head pounded. “Jonah?” He had blinked momentarily and the boy had gone.
A face appeared at the door, bespectacled and bearded, with beady eyes that shone like two bright sparks in the shadow.
“You Malachi?” Old Bunce asked as he looked him up and down. Malachi nodded mournfully, his bones weakened and mind befuddled. “The boy’s inside. He says be quick or Malpas will get you.” Old Bunce sniggered to himself as he pushed the door wider to welcome the magician. “Through the door and I’ll leave you in my parlour.”
Malachi followed the old man as he led him through the tavern and left him in his private parlour. The room was lit by many candles on tables and hanging from an enormous chandelier.
Jonah knelt by the fire, staring into the flames, listening to the girl beside him. As Malachi stepped into the room, the girl continued to speak. With a flick of her head she turned quickly, looked him in the eye, and then cast her glare back to the fire as she told Jonah of her escape.
Tara’s tone was unusually flat, her voice slow and measured. With one hand she scratched the bandages that were tightly wrapped around her head. She spoke continuously of “The Alabaster” as her eyes searched the room, hoping to spy some corner of the box. She could feel it was close by.
Malachi waited for her to stop speaking. He had seen this girl before, heard her voice, sensed her gluttony for living, but here before him was a soulless impostor.
